Fitz and The Firecat
by Jakkani
Summary: Ages have passed, and the world of Avatar has advanced to new levels of technology. But still, the quarrels of men stay the same; In a time of uneasy truces, warfare, and betrayal, two children try to find their way together. This is their story.
1. Chapter 1

"_Wyverns…" _Samwell sighed with disbelief, flipping the golden coin over his knuckles artfully. "I've got one. Finally..." He stopped flipping it, holding it up for all to see. The golden metal, inscribed with the roaring Wyvern of Brume, glinted dully in the morning mist, and his companions could barely make it out.

"No, _we _got one. _We _were the ones who did the dirty work; _you_ just threw your javelins from the rear. And trust me, none of them bloody darts hit." Dunhas huffed the words out as he dragged his grindstone against his blood crusted iron axe, his dwarfed form seated on a nearby frozen stump that jutted from the earth. The heads they recently gathered were stuffed in a sack near him; they were the heads of men who were wanted for "treason", and had offered no resistance when Samwell finally found them hiding in a cave far north of The Wall. They killed the wanted men's children, too; there was a bonus reward for whoever did so. Kaim and Jecht, above doing such a thing, stood back and watched as Dunhas, Stannis, and Samwell had butchered the children.

But that was nearly an hour ago. Now they were headed back to The Wall to collect the other half of their reward.

"Aye," Dunhas continued, "but I'm the one who found the bounty in the first place. Killing those whelps was the easy part;" He stopped grinding to gesture at Samwell with his axe as he continued. "And you know bloody damn well that you couldn't have killed them on your own. If it wasn't for me," He gestured at the third companion, resting against the trunk of a tree. "And Jecht, you would've been gored as soon as we came in through the cave entrance. You can only have so many spears, and you missed a bloody fuckin' lot of em'."

"He has a point," continued Jecht. "You did almost nothing but scare them. In fact, I have half a mind to take your Wyvern for myself. Two fortunes are always better than one." He whittled more wood from his figurine using a dull, chipped knife. It was finally starting to take shape of a crown. Samwell ignored the threat.

It was freezing cold and foggy that morning; the mercenaries pulled their cloaks about themselves as they sat about the campfire, but it was futile. The cold sliced through cloak and mail, leather and cloth and skin, and chilled the bone as if nothing were around it. The coming of spring began to melt the snow and parts of the frozen over lake, making it all the more foggy. Jecht had to hold the wooden block right under his nose to see it as he sculpted.

The Forest Beyond The Wall was thick, with many half-dead trees jutting from the ground like so many brown spears. They seemed to surround the mercenaries as they rested, trying to keep them there. The snow that fell in frozen clumps was fresh and white, the only beautiful thing north of The Wall. It was a nice landscape at times, untouched by the hand of men. Few people ever headed north of The Wall, and the few that did were either Black Crow Rangers scouting the area, or men fleeing the reach of King Tyrion; both of which were considered insane. The land was rumored to be the home of Wyverns and Witches, Succubae and Wights, Slayers and Giants, and that was the very reason The Great Wall, Durin's Shield, was built.

Samwell's voice came through the mist, interrupting Jecht's thoughts. "You both got your own Wyverns. Stop complaining. We're rich men, now. And just for the death of six. Two of which were still children…" His voice trailed off, a pang of regret in his voice. "Ah, but such is the world. The hand that kills is the hand that lives longer, they say..."

Dunhas's voice came through the fog in answer. "Ye, but I'm just doing what I have to to make sure my belly is going to be full tonight. I think you got a sick pleasure from it, honestly." There was a moment of silence as Samwell considered challenging him.

He decided against it. _I have a rich life ahead of me, what is a fool going to change? I've come too long to die by the hands of an oaf. Bugger that. _The fog began lifting as the sun rose in the east.

"What are you lads going to do with your gold?" Jecht asked to break the silence.

Stannis was the first to answer. "Oi, toss me that apple we found."

Jecht stopped whittling to shuffle through his pack, producing a half rotten, squishy apple.

Dunhas spoke, his heavy accent twisting his words. "I'm going to buy me a mead hall, with wenches. Beautiful wenches and amazing bards that shall sing my name to the farthest corners of The Three Kingdoms. Dunhas the Dwarf; I like the sound of that…Or Dunhas the Headhunter--"

"Toss me that damn apple," interrupted Stannis, "unless you mean to eat it."

Jecht threw it in the direction of his voice. He could barely make out Stannis's thin figure catching the apple, dropping it, and wrestling with his longbow trying to string it.

"I'm going to buy Melissa." Samwell spoke louder than he meant to. Stannis finally managed to bend the bow enough to stretch the string around it. He tied it, lifting it above him, plucking the string to test its tautness.

"Oh, that wench you spoke of? The one with the maidenhead worth a whole Wyvern?" Dunhas, too, lifted his axe above him, watching the edge gleam. Satisfied, Stannis pulled an arrow from his waist holster, pulled it back, and knocked it. Then, looking down at the rotten apple, realized that he could not both throw and shoot it.

At that moment, Kaim burst through the trees, returning form his trek. A small doe hung over his shoulder. He walked over to the campfire and tossed the corpse down, ignoring the others.

"Kaim, throw it for me." He kicked the apple, which rolled towards Kaim's black leather boots. He seemed to take his time bending over slowly to pick up the apple.

Kaim spoke for the first time that evening."We have to walk two more days, one if we travel lightly." He tossed the apple to Samwell, who caught it with a surprised expression.

Dunhas's grated voice came again. "That's good, I suppose… Kaim, you don't talk to much, do ye? I've only heard you say two or three things since I met you."

Kaim didn't respond, instead sitting and resting against a tree, closing his eyes.

Samwell shouted back, as if he just heard Dunhas. "She isn't a wench, fool. Watch your tongue, or I'll cut it out. She's the most beautiful woman in the world. I want to run away with her after I buy her, and we're going to sail to the edge of the Jade Ocean."

"Buy her. As in she's a wench." replied Dunhas.

Samwell shouted back, "She's a virgin, how is she a wench?"

"She's a virgin, aye, but she still be a wench. A woman for sale."

There was no response. Jecht chuckled to himself before tossing the apple. It faded into the fog, Samwell sending an arrow whistling through the air after it. All of them heard the _chunk_ of the apple being hit before it splashed into the half frozen slush river.

"Aye, that one got cored real good. Good shot." Dunhas fell off his stump in a heap after saying that sentence, landing in the soft snow wordlessly.

Jecht gasped, dropping his figurine in the snow, running over to Dunhas. A feathered shaft protruded from between his eyes, his head completely impaled by an arrow. Jecht turned, confused, to see an arrow aimed squarely at his forehead.

He periodically switched targets to Kaim, Dunhas, and Samwell, to make sure none of them moved. One of Kaim's eyes opened, and then closed with disinterest as he seemed to slip back into sleep.

"Drop your golds, and I'll be letting you live. I'm taking all of it for myself."

Samwell spoke up. "Would you disgrace your house, Stannis? Your name? The Black Crows? Look around you, fool, there is nothing but snow and ice and tree in every direction as far as the eye can see. What will you do? Where will you go?" Kaim stood, calmly gripping the hilt of his blade as if he just realized what was going on.

"Hah, I have no name. I am a mercenary, a sellsword, a Red Ship Raider. And you lads were found dead by me, the loyal Stannis, on my return from a piss break; or at least that's what I'll tell them. I'm not going to ask you again, toss me your gold and be on your way while the offer still stands. The next arrow will be between one of your eyes. "Kaim's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword as he gripped it harder. A single wheezing cough escaped Dunhas' still corpse.

Samwell's hands dropped to his sides, hopeless. Kaim's hand was still on his hilt. "You, lovesick fool, drop your gold now, or I'll shoot ya.", gesturing to Samwell. And then to Kaim "You, as well, craven." They stood there like that, staring at each other, all knowing that if he loosed that arrow he would die before he could draw another, but also knowing that whoever got hit would most likely die on the spot.

The trees behind Samwell shook, just a little.

He twisted, instantly pointing the arrow's head at the trees behind him.

"Who's there? Come out."

A horse came plodding out of the trees; or rather, what used to be a horse.

The mare's belly was slit open, its icy blue tangled entrails dragging on the floor as it walked. Blue skin was peeling off it, its heart visible, completely still and gripped with frost. A man rode it; or death that took the shape of a man, sitting atop his mount. His eyes could be seen through his visor; they were wide open as if death was the last thing he saw, his throat slit completely open. His armor was heavy black metal and covered him from head to toe except his stomach and feet, and was spiked and imposing, his helm tall and pointed. He wore no leather or cloth under his armor, the metal was lying directly on his icy blue skin. He was a corpse as tall as two men, a frozen corpse that moved. The only thing that was alive were its beet red eyes. He had a shimmering outline with a heavy mace seized by ice swinging from one gauntleted fist. He dismounted heavily, landing on his steel boots, stalking towards a Stannis frozen in fear. He felt a warm liquid expand from his breeches as he gasped the word,

"...A Wight. Bloody hell…!"

Kaim drew the sword hanging at his belt.

Samwell took a step back. "No. There's no way. Those aren't real."

But it was real. The thing matched its definition perfectly from the stories they were told when they were young.

Something unfroze in Stannis, some self preservation mechanism, which allowed him to loose the arrow. It clunked into the eye of the approaching Wight. He was hit by the bolt, sure, and the feathered shaft protruded from his lidless eyes, but he continued as if he had been spit on instead of impaled. Stannis pulled and began to draw another arrow, but it was too late. The wight flew towards him with rapidly increased speed.

It grabbed Stannis by the face, his left hand folding almost completely around his head, looking into his eyes. Stannis screamed and pulled at the iron grip with both of his, deadly cold ice spreading outwards from his grip to engulf and flash freeze the archers face and eventually his whole body. Then he smashed his frozen form, using the mace in the other hand, continuing towards Samwell without any remorse.

Samwell heaved his spear out from where it was laying in the snow, charging towards the Wight, the banner of The Black Crows flowing on its edge. He impaled the Wight's stomach. Its eyes didn't blink as the spear pierced his soft belly, and blue jelly gushed out from the wound. It pulled itself up the shaft of the spear, and backhanded Stannis with startling strength, caving his face in with a sickening crunch; his head exploded in a bloody mess as his body fell in a heap, instantly dead. The last thing he thought of was Melissa.

Jecht turned, sprinting off into the forest, tripping over his own feet, and left Kaim alone.

His crimson eyes flashed towards Kaim, who felt no fear. He had heard of Wights, but thought them rumors and nothing more. Kaim glared at the Wight's stomach, watching as it pulled the spear out of itself. Blue pus came oozing out.

It bled. And if it bled, he could kill it.

He held his ground, gripping the pommel of his leaf shaped blade, as the Wight glided up to him, mace held above his head. He swung the mace in a wide backswing; the heavy steel blurring as it flew threw the air and narrowly missed a ducking Kaim. It slammed into a dead tree instead, the whole thing exploding in a flurry of splinters and snow.

He pulled the mace out, swinging it in the other direction, missing again. Then, he lifted his mace overhead, swinging down with all of its strength. The ground exploded in a flurry of snow and dirt, nearly hitting him, and the sheer force of the mace hitting the ground sent him backwards, landing on his side. As the snow cleared, he watched the thing, looking for weakness.

The Wight left the mace in the ground, pulling out a cold steel blade from his back that Kaim hadn't seen before. Kaim noticed that not only did the Wight have an exposed gap in armor at his stomach and knees, but his helmet wasn't buckled correctly, and the insides of his elbows were also vulnerable. He walked with a limp on his left leg, meaning his right had been injured before. He could barely, just barely, make out the tip of an arrow protruding from behind his knee cap.

The Wight held the steel like it was a dagger, but it was as long as Kaim's sword, and caked with frozen blood. He swung down, again, and this time Kaim lifted his own sword to catch it; the blade ricocheted off his, causing the Wight to stumble, and Kaim plunged his sword deep into him where Samwell had stabbed him earlier with the spear. Blue pus oozed from the wound again. Kaim pulled a dagger from his boot, and sliced the insides of the Wights hamstrings. It fell over, trying to stand as Kaim punched the dagger into his knee over and over again. It swung a metal fist in frustration, which Kaim ducked under, and stabbed him in the throat with the dagger. Realizing he couldn't pull it out, Kaim leapt back. The thing howled in anger, but pulled the knife from it's throat as if it caused no pain. Blue puss bled from it.

_If it bleeds, I can kill it…_ echoed Kaim.

The thing still walked, but wobbled as it did so. It's eyes widened in a furious hatred as it stumbled towards Kaim, who knew not what else he could do. The Wight lunged forward with another backswing, slicing Kaim's shoulder open as he leapt back again. Realizing his back was to a tree, Kaim was struck with the urge to flee.

But he never ran. From anything.

The hot blood pouring from his shoulder landed in the white snow beneath him, and melted holes in the ice.

_It's worth a try._

The Wight lunged again, piercing the tree in an explosion of splinters, impaling Kaim completely through the stomach. The pain overwhelmed his mind, but he concentrating, gritting his teeth, cupping his hand beneath his stomach. Blood pooled in his hand.

The Wight emitted a guttural sound, which Kaim could only assume was laughter, as he pushed the sword deeper through Kaim. Kaim, suddenly, slung the blood into the Wight's beet red eyes, watching as the it's skin began to peel off and melt.

A soul piercing high pitched scream exploded from the Wraith as it jerked back in pain holding it's eyes, stabbing Kaim's ears, overwhelming all of his other senses. Kaim put his hands over his ears, screaming in agony at the high pitched wail, seeing double because of the sheer volume of the scream. He was sure he was going to be deaf, or insane, the Wight writhing horribly in pain. It glided off, twisting and jerking, through the gap of trees from whence it came, leaving a trail of frost in its wake, still screaming. The horse fell over in a heap, dead as it should be, no longer empowered by the Wight's' unholy magic, as the scream faded into silence.

Kaim looked down at the frozen blade protruding from his stomach. It was plunged in deep, all the way to the hilt.

_If only I can get it out…_

He gripped the hilt, pulling, pulling it out of himself. He coughed up blood as he heaved, and slowly the blade began to budge. He ripped it out of himself and collapsed on the ground, his strength completely gone, his blood pooling beneath him. He gritted his teeth, looking down as his skin began to knit itself back together. The soft organ tissue intertwined itself first, then the muscle, and then the skin. The last piece of skin was knit together, and disappeared with a wink of green.

His heart pounding in his chest, he gathered himself and stood, looking around for the first time.

The trees were now splintered and destroyed, the snow stained with blood, corpses strewn about the area.

At his feet was the whittled figurine made by Samwell, untouched by the carnage that had just happened. Kaim bent over and gently plucked it out of the snow, running his fingers over the rivulets in the wood.

He would take it back as proof of the ranger's death. From Dunhas he took a golden ear ring, shaped like a diamond, and from Stannis his legendary elvish longbow also as proof of their deaths. He ruffled through their pockets and packs as well, taking whatever food or money they had, including the three golden Dragons, but left all else. He thought to take the Wight's sword, but flung it immediately as it stung his flesh with cold. Instead, he wrapped the Wight's sword in cloth and heaved it onto his back, but by the time three minutes had passed he realized the sword had smoked and simmered until it no longer existed.

He hacked down the surrounding trees using Dunhas' axe to make a primitive cross, and buried him beneath the snow. He hung Dunhas' helmet atop the cross, and laid his axe across the grave, knowing that sooner or later someone would come to steal it. Little could be done for the shattered remains of Stannis; but he buried Samwell's pieces, Kaim vomiting up everything he ate that day at the sight and stench of his smashed face.

He looked to the south. The sun had begun to set in the west, bathing the landscape in orange. When night fell, more things would attack him, he was sure. He would survive through it, though, just as Kaim the Immortal had survived through everything else, and began the long trek back to The Great Wall, Durin's Shield.

**CHAPTER ONE: JAILRAT**

The little thing sat there, bundled in clothing. It never wailed, burped, crawled, or anything else that a normal baby would do. It just slept. They fed the baby milk through his pursed lips and spoke about how he would never awaken from his coma. They pointed at him and talked, but never laughed. He heard them in his dreams, for he spent weeks, maybe even years, in dreams, with intermittent consciousness.

Guardsman Baird vowed to name him if the baby ever fully awoke from his coma-like state. He didn't put any thought into the name beforehand, because he was sure it was going to die. Baird nursed it back to health regardless, cleaning and bandaging the baby's wounds until his gashes, scrapes and slashes faded to bright pink scars. He would have to live a charmed life to survive through his wounds at such a young age.

Charmed life he had.

When he finally awoke and his soft blue eyes settled on the guardsman, Baird muttered a single word under his breath.

"…Fitz…" would be the first word he'd remember.


	2. Chapter 2 Steel Leash

**CHAPTER TWO: STEEL LEASH**

_The Alcante Prison._

_A massive fortress known for housing the most dangerous criminals and sorcerers, it is located on the southern tip of Raenlyn. The guards of Alcante are imported from the islands of Jinrabash, their people famous for their swirling pupils, bronze skin, and ability to use Ice Magicka. _

_Taken forcefully as a child from their mother, a Jinrabashian boy is forced to move to Camp Fenair. Here, they live, grow, and fight with other children their age. They are allowed out of their cells only to practice armed combat and survival training during the day, and taught to tend to weapons during the night. They are taught to be heartless in all matters, and encouraged to steal if they are not satisfied with their lives. However, if caught, the penalty is death. _

_They are trained in all matters of weapons and fighting techniques, and finally sold to places like The Alcante prison. Such teachings are truly cruel, but breed the greatest, fastest, and most resourceful warriors in all three kingdoms._

* * *

He knew nothing but prison for thirteen long years.

He knew not a mother's love, a friend's laughter, or even the wind through his hair.

All he knew was the "Man in Steel". He was inconceivably big to the boy, and would bring him muddy water and cold, hard bread for dinner at the same time every day. He would stare down at the boy as he wolfed down the bread, with a look on his stubble covered face that the boy didn't recognize. It was almost as if he were sad.

Sometimes he would teach the boy basic Common, like the names of objects and feelings and colors. He'd never forget the first word he was taught.

The Man in Armor pointed at the chest where his heart was beneath the metal, leather, cloth and skin, and softly said "Baird." Then, he pointed at the boy.

"Fitz. F-i-t-z. Fitz, Ahnheim."

Fitz would giggle as the finger, so big and mailed, touched his tiny chest. Baird would hold up portraits of a big bear and a little bear, nuzzling each other in some forest.

He pointed at the largest bear. "Bear."

Then, at the tree." Tree. Forest."

Then, at the smallest bear. "Son."

And, finally, at the larger bear again. "Father."

Fitz, his eyes open wide in understanding, pointed to Baird. "Father?"

A flash of pity crossed Baird's face. He was silent, then dropped the portraits, leaving Fitz's cell and locking it behind him without another word.

After that day, he seldom taught anything referring to relationships between people. Regardless, Fitz spent his days in his cell, dreaming and drawing on the walls with the chalk Baird gave him. He would play with his hair, or with his shackles, or even played with his scraps of food.

There was another guardsman who spent time with Baird occasionally, Earl, and they talked of food and song and women for hours on end. Fitz never saw his face, for he always set in a chair facing away from his cell. But he'd come and go very often.

On his twelfth birthday, Baird gave him a precious gift. A small mirror, no larger than Baird's hand, with a simple wooden frame; and so, for the first time, Fitz looked at himself.

It seemed like a corpse looked back at him from the mirror. He had small white-gold tufts of hair growing in random spots on his head; he had the icy blue eyes of a shattered soul. His body had adjusted to the darkness, making his skin pale as a ghost and his eyes larger than normal. There was a small anchor-shaped scar, no bigger than a fingernail, on his temple. Other than that, his skin was smooth and unscarred.

Until, quite suddenly one day, he was taken to The Wardens office once when he was ten. And he would never forget it.

* * *

He knew Baird well- the lengthy conversations he had with Earl were more than enough to not only learn to speak English, but to become aquatinted with both of them. Baird strolled down the hall in his glinting steel boots, coming directly to Fitz at the start of his shift. He opened the bars to his cell, grabbed Fitz's wrist forcefully, and led him down the hall. Fitz neared the hanging torches for the first time and felt the warmth of them soak into his bones. They pushed open the heavy wooden door near Baird's small table without stopping, and he thrust Fitz in front of him.

He gave a timid Fitz a nudge from behind. They climbed the cold stone steps of the tower that Fitz had never climbed, going to a place he had never been. There was an arrow slit in the wall of the tower, used to defend the fortress and Fitz saw for one second the life he had been denied.

To the east, endless plains bounded on and on with one lone road following them. Wagons moved slowly but surely along it; a group of knights trotted in a wedge formation down the road. Two men herded their sheep along the tall grass, eager to get home. The wind swayed the trees and the sun burned bright. To the north, the sea blotted out the horizon. A narrow river branched through the countryside, and passed by the Alcante prison. Titanic ships docked onto a platform a little more than two miles away. The mariners atop the ships threw ropes off the edge, and the dockworkers tied them on so as to anchor them. They all worked like a clock. He inhaled the salty sea, and the wind ruffled his short white gold hair. It was life.

He supposed Baird pitied him, for he let him stand there and gaze out of the small, narrow arrow slit. He pushed him along eventually. They climbed in that darkness for a long period of time- how long, Fitz couldn't tell. They finally reached yet another heavy wooden door. Baird knocked twice and the small peephole slid open. Beams of light shot onto the stairs from behind the head of the doorkeep. Two dark eyes stared at them, but Fitz could tell he couldn't see them yet. His eyes finally adjusted and he slammed shut the peephole. The door was dragged open.

Fitz raised his hand to block the sudden burst of light, for he was blinded. His eyes burned and tears ran freely down them. He knew he'd adjust, but the pain and confusion seemed to last for an eternity.

It was the first time Fitz had ever seen another person.

More captives stood around the room, most balancing on one leg at a time. Torches were lit along the book cases and desk. Fitz squeezed the dark red carpet between his toes, warm and fuzzy all at once. The fattest man Fitz would ever see stood there with pale flabby arms raised, so as to address the crowd, with gold draped across them and across his chest. He had an absurdly large bright red robe that draped around him into pools on the ground. He also had a heavily jeweled goblet in one hand, filled to the brim with blood red wine. His voice was strained with effort.

"You prisoners were brought here for one reason and one reason only. Today is my 55th birthday, and I've decided that my life needs more….excitement. So, every five years I'm going to host a race around the castle walls. Whoever wins will be granted the honor of visiting the docks for one day; escorted, of course." Everyone's eyes widened in unison.

"Oh, and there's a twist… the last person to cross the line shall be cut down on the spot. Any questions?"

No one wanted to argue for their lives.

_Why won't they?_, Fitz thought.

It would become clear to him later. These people were prisoners who had no chance of being released. They were supposed to be in this prison for life.

A particularly wrinkly old man raised one hand from the back of the room.

"Guards, remove the hand he raised. There are no questions to be asked." He made a be-gone gesture with a flick of his wrist and turned back to his desk. Baird dragged the door open. "No, I—"He was hit in the face with an armored fist, and his head rebounded back with a sickening crunch. He instantly went limp and was carried out the door Fitz came in by two guards. A third shouldered the door closed and continued standing near the door with his hands clasped behind his back.

The Marshall took a mighty gulp from his goblet, set it down with a sigh of satisfaction, and turned back towards them.

"Now go, and win. Or lose, and die." The doorman opened it once again, and all the prisoners were herded down the stairs. They passed the arrow slit again, but Fitz had no time to look out it. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air from down the stairs. It was the old man. They continued down and eventually reached the bottom. The path forked into three, one leading to Fitz's cell. He could barely, by torch light, make out fingernail marks embedded in the walls of one of the paths.

The ice cold floor echoed with the pitter-patter of a dozen feet as they made their way in the darkness, guided only by the flickering torch. Fitz ran his fingers through his short hair as he squinted at the light at the end of the hallway.

It grew slowly, seeming to take forever. The light that shone between the holes of the criss-crossed gate almost blinded Fitz, again. But he longed for it.

The portcullis was dragged open by two guards in blood red armor. They filed out into the courtyard, and the unfamiliar smell of life flooded into him again.

Fitz breathed in, and breathed out.

The guards spit down on them as they walked out into the courtyard. Some were sleeping, but nearby men roused them awake as the warden strode across the castle walls. They were nudged towards the bottom of a chipped stone stair case leading up the wall.

The rest of the prisoners grudgingly made their way up the stair case, cursing under their breath. But Fitz was still stunned at the openness of the sky. _How very blue it is!_

He missed a step and stumbled, but managed to catch his self.

The Warden stood near the top of the stairs, hands folded behind his back. Another faceless guardsman held a red flag. Without warning he waved it, and everyone took off running. Fitz, not having the slightest idea what was happening, chased after them.

The four corners of the fort were different in every way, with the prison being on a cliff. Fitz looked down one of the corners and saw the drop past the walls, to the cliffs, and finally to the rushing river, and got dizzy.

He ran and ran, around the castle walls. Stopping once, he caught his breath. Another one of the faceless guards walked up to him, knocking him in the head with the handle of his blade. He fell to his knees, cringing, holding his hands above him. The guard smirked, walking back to his post. Fitz got back to his feet, running along the castle walls once more for fear of being hit again.

His stomach pumped like a blacksmith's bellows. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum, and sweat streamed down his forehead, making his hair stick to it. He hunched over as he caught his breath at the finishing line.

He had come in last place.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of a man who was shot through the heart with an arrow for going the wrong way.

…_Had he tried to escape?... _

_What would life be like outside the walls, anyways?_

The thoughts of freedom starting filling his mind, but was interrupted as another one of the faceless guards walked up to Fitz, sword drawn.

Fitz, startled by the glinting metal similar to Baird's boots, began backing away. But as soon as he did, the ground beneath his feet froze and he fell in a crash to the floor.

_The ground…froze…?! _

The ground beneath him had been frozen over, and slicked with a thin layer of ice.

He advanced towards Fitz, sword still drawn. With his other hand, he pulled off his helmet to reveal a crooked yellow smile, a hooked nose, and dirty blonde hair in a ponytail.

His pupils were not a full circle, but a spiral. A spiral of green.

He reached down and lifted Fitz off the floor with one hand and held him in the air. Fitz kicked and struggled to get free, but his iron grip didn't relent. He pulled his sword back, and hit him in the stomach with the hilt. Something cracked. A stream of crimson blood dribbled down Fitz's chin. Red panic roared through his mind as he looked into the spiral eyes of his killer. Fitz grabbed the arm holding him up as the guard pulled his sword back again.

Something unlocked in him. Wisps of hair began floating from his head, levitating with static electricity.

They screamed, both of them. The guards' back arched as he was cooked alive, both his and Fitz's eyes glowing a bright blue. Electricity arced between him and the ground nearby; his grip vanished, and he clutched his heart as he fell over in a heap of metal. Fitz wiped the blood running down his mouth with his sleeve and collected his self. The other prisoners ran up to them, looking down at him in a circle.

Fitz looked down at his palm, and noticed the burn marks crossing his hands. His skin was burnt, and the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. It felt as if an egg had popped on the crown of his head. Pain and confusion began flooding him, it felt as if his head was splitting. He held his head together, feeling as if it would fall apart if he didn't. Pain filled him.

Pain.

_Searing_ pain.

He fell back, with a thud, body releasing him from the pain of consciousness. Fitz's last thought was that he knew why he was imprisoned.

He could wield Magicka, and it wasn't normal.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE: LUCCA**

_Among the Three Great Nations of Jinrabash, Raenlyn, and Greyjoy, Magicka is forbidden in two. Jinrabash is the only great nation that freely allows Magicka; it also has laws forbidding Magicka usage, but like most laws in Jinrabash they aren't followed in the slightest, and are used to steal, convert metals, and create illusions. Only those who serve in the armed services of Raenlyn or Greyjoy may use Magicka and practice it publicly. In other minor nations, including New Lorien, the rules vary; New Lorien encourages Magicka usage in daily work and tasks._

_Magicka is incredibly rare in all the nations, mostly appearing among elves and less commonly in humans, although all races have been proven to possess children with Magicka abilities._

_Magicians, wizards, and other Magicka users all suffer a whiplash. Depending on how much Magicka is used a massive headache ravages the user to protect against the abusing of their gift. There are herbs known to numb their minds to the lethal headache, but they are rare. As such, people with Magicka often die at an early age._

She had to serve food to earn her keep in The Atbara Inn, which wasn't always easy. The chaos of a busy night, usually because of the unbelievably cheap customers, often made her frustrated. Two men weren't pleased with their meat, another with the soup-Even though they were both prepared perfectly well. Three dishes were dropped somewhere in the crowd. For a tavern by the Jade Road, it was extremely busy.

"Lucca, you forgot butter!" The chef screamed after her, through the noise of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.

_Butter on a steak? Who would eat such a thing?_

The man was a regular of Atbara Inn, a Warden with bright red robes and half a dozen bodyguards, who wasn't pleased with anything. He ate there at least once a day, and complained about the food until the cook waived the fee.

_Fat bastard._

She would've told him so, too, if she weren't mute. She pushed her way out of the chaos of the mess hall, to the bustling kitchen, and out the back door to the outhouse to stop from losing her sanity. She pulled open the door of the outhouse, stepping inside and checking to make sure everything was in order for the customers. Across from the sink there was a bucket of water hanging off a hook for hand rinsing. She dumped the old water in the grass and filled it with water from the nearby well, gazing into the bucket as she carried it. She could see her reflection.

She shouldn't have cut her hair so short, but she did by accident, almost to her ears; that morning she had accidently cut a bang too short and had to cut the rest to even it out. At least it was black and curly; It would've looked a lot worse otherwise. She was so plain it pained her. Black hair, black eyes, pale skin. Boring.

On the bright side, it was already sundown. She only had to work for a couple more hours in the beer hall, serving the drunks, the perverts, the rich, and the depressed. She took out her cloth, refolded it, stuffed it in her back pocket, and headed back towards The Atbara Inn.

She dragged her feet up the stairs of The Atbara Inn, to the second floor, walking down the length of the hallway. She subconsciously counted the doors as she walked, waiting for the fourth door on the left. She reached it, dragging the key out of her pocket and stuffing it in the keyhole. Her head was sore; tired of the noises and bar fights from earlier; but now she had silence. Her room lock seemed to reluctantly click. Lucca pushed it open, trudging towards the bed, her every muscle sore. She unlaced her shoes, collapsing on the bed, half unconscious, her fingers fumbling and stupid. She kicked one of her shoes off, the other still tied, and passed out.

A knock on the door half woke her.

The taste in her mouth was worse than ever; she was sleeping in a shallow pool of drool on her pillow. The embers in the fireplace had burnt down to a dull glow. She still had all her dirty clothing on, from her greasy rag to her stained pants. She cracked one eye open, looking out of the window. The moon outside was higher in the sky than before. It had been at least a couple hours since she had fallen asleep.

_Did someone…knock? Or was I dreaming…?_

_It could've been in my dreams, or maybe …maybe it wasn't…perhaps it was the maiden and the bear, come to visit me. We could play games, I guess, skip rope and…dance…and…_

She drifted back into a dream before she could find her answer.

She awoke the next morning, wrapped in her clothing and sheets like a cocoon. Lucca reluctantly struggled out of it and went to her window, pushing it open, inhaling the morning air. She breathed in memory, the early days of her life she spent here. Her parents were fleeing Greyjoy's tyranny, stopping to rest at the woods near The Atbara Inn. There they left her, in the comfort and safety of her father's mother. She grew with her grandma for years, until she finally died of old age. After burying her under an oak tree, Lucca had to fend for herself by working at the nearby Atbara Inn.

The owners, Dunhas and Spocht, knew nothing about her. She was a little mute girl that kept coming back, day after day, and they eventually gave her a job scrubbing the floor. She showed an interest in Dunhas's inventions every day, and he eventually taught her how to make things. Lucca had grown up alone, inventing gadgets and working her days away.

She looked down on the peasants cluttering the street, going about their business, completely unaware that she was looking down on them. A team of men passed out papers advertising a joust; a woman barked her goods out to the passerby of her tent. Armored men, too, walked the streets, most coming in the direction of the Atbara Inn. The clouds in the sky were stretched out and heavy, it was to rain soon.

_That's okay, I love the rain._

She grabbed her favorite goggles on the bed stand and fitted them on her forehead. Finding it finally, she picked up her lock mechanism where she had left it on the floor. It must've laid there for hours, forgotten. It was the latest invention of hers, a sphere made of interlocking metal and gears. It was like a lock, but instead of a combination it was a puzzle. A very, very hard puzzle that only Lucca had the ability to unravel-as far as she knew, at least.

The owners of The Atbara Inn were two Dwarven brothers, Dunhas and Spocht, who taught Lucca to use metal and gunpowder in interesting ways. For instance, with a bar of average soap, a teaspoon of sand from the beach, and a pinch of centaur dust, she could make a stick of explosives. That was the first thing she learned, trying to get the measurements just right being a fond memory of Lucca's. Dunhas had been arrested two months ago for an outrageous charge of conspiracy against the king, sentenced to live out half a year patrolling The Wall and the North Beyond The Wall. She hoped he would return soon, he was far better at engineering than his brother.

Grabbing up her sheets, she stumbled out her door, down the hall way and the stairs, wrapping herself up to cover her body. Two men, Black Crows, were negotiating a night's stay with a short and stubby Spocht at the front door. The bartender polished a glass while reading something in a book.

She greeted him as she passed, going out the back door of the kitchen, drawing water from the well. After she had a full two buckets, she returned to her room, heating it over the fire as she undressed. She was a skinny, pale, and recently flowered girl of fifteen summers. She looked in the mirror, disappointed at how flat she was.

Nevertheless, she dumped the water in the tub and eased herself in, scrubbing herself raw and pink with soap and water. She climbed out when she was done, leaving tracks of water across the bathroom, drying herself off. She dressed herself for another day of work, hoping she'd learn more from Spocht in her spare time.

Someone set fire to the Atbara Inn in the early hours of the next morning.

Lucca sat on her knees in the ashes of the former Atbara Inn.

_Who had done this? Why? _

_My life is gone! Where can I go now?_

Spocht had fled back to Stormforge had to reunite with his family and mourn the loss of their beloved Inn. Most of the servers had gone with him or to the surrounding countryside. Where was she to go?

Every day she stood there for a week, watching the sun rise and set as she sat in the ashes, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. She had twenty copper coins in her pocket, barely enough to buy a room for one night. She didn't know anything of the outside world; she had been born and raised here.

People came, too, but had moved along after glancing at the burnt down inn. She had taken to selling the clams she didn't eat that she'd salvaged from the former kitchen, the only thing that survived the fire. She'd motion at everyone who passed on The Jade Road, flagging them down. She'd point at the clams, and when they asked how much she'd hold up five fingers to indicate five coppers.

Few people actually brought the clams, but the ones who did paid well. One man, a ranger in brown faded leathers with the roaring lion of Raenlyn stitched into it, barked at her, "How much for the clam between your legs?" from the street. His companions chuckled.

A dark skinned old man with friendly eyes and an enormous grey beard came down that road in the early hours of one morning. He wore nothing but a black loincloth and a walking stick with a large sack tied to it; his body was old, but corded with muscle, and Lucca began to wonder why he needed a walking stick at all as he strode up to her. He just stood there, smiling.

She reached into the bubbling bucket of clams, grabbing one and holding it up to him. She held up five fingers as well. He stroked his beard as he thought, looking down at the clams.

"No, I don't think I should. I don't have any money."

She stood there, staring at him. He realized, then, that she was mute, handing her paper, a feather, and ink. She wrote her question, "Is it directions you want?"

"No… I'm a traveling monk, young one; I know of everything everywhere in The Three Kingdoms, from the littlest squirrel to the mightiest of kings. But what I don't know, child, is what a little mute is doing selling clams from the ashes of a ruined inn in the middle of nowhere." He smiled as he finished his sentence.

Her eyes looked away from his, down to the road's packed dirt beneath them. She sat in the dirt.

"Ah. You don't know where to go, eh? Well, that would explain it." He answered, without waiting for a reply. "A girl, lost in the middle of the Jade Road. I'm surprised you haven't been taken by some band of thugs yet." He took a seat next to where she sat in the dirt.

"Hermit; can't you teach me where to go?" she scribbled on the paper, holding it up for him to see.

"Ah, my dear, I could teach you a great deal of things. Many, many things." She looked over at him, confused.

He swept his hand over his face, and when it passed, there was a new face. Lucca gasped, scrambling back from the old man, scared to death, until her back was pressed up against the trunk of a tree. It was a completely new person, his facial features redone. His long hooked nose was replaced by a short and straight one; his lips were shrunken, his brow higher and his cheek bones higher He had hair, now, long and dark blue, and his black pupils were replaced by purple ones. He swept his hand over it again, as simple as if he were waving at her, and his face was back to the way it was before. He fell over laughing, holding his stomach and kicking.

_What…? How did he…?_

Her mouth was open in shock.

He gathered himself, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "You should've seen the look on your face. You had so many chins, shocked to death!"

She was angry, now, for being made to look like a coward. She angrily scribbled, "How the hell did you do that?"

"Ah, child. Taking on a new face is as easy as taking on a new name. An illusion, as simple as that." he said, after reading it.

"Can you tell me how to change my face?" She scribbled. Her fear was beginning to change into wonder.

"Yes, I can. Puff out your cheeks." She did so. "Stick out your tongue." She did that as well.

"There you go, your face is changed." She stopped. "I'm serious." She wrote.

"As am I, child."

She paused for a moment.

"Okay, then. Where is the closest town?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"Because I need somewhere to live."

"Ah, but you could live anywhere if you know how. Were not you living fine until I came along?"

"I need friends, family, and other people." she wrote.

"The forest animals are your friends; the sun, stars, and moon your family."

She was tired of writing all of this down. She rubbed her aching hands as she thought of a wiser question to ask the waiting hermit.

"Who are you?" she wrote finally. He stroked his beard as he thought again.

"I am the Raven King." He swept his hands over his face, revealing a hideous face; half of it was dead, the skin hanging off his face to reveal bone, an eyeball with a red pupil in a skeletons eye socket. The other half was young and handsome, with a sinister smile and high eyebrows. Black hair ran down his face in frozen clumps.

Her head jerked back in fear, a small whine escaping her throat.

"And, I am Lord Jon." He swept his hand over his face, again. He turned into a charming prince, his hair long and blonde, and his eyes brown. Those eyes were marked by sadness. She cupped her hands over her mouth in surprise.

"And, I am Prince Jaime." He swept his hands over his face again, and this time his eyes were dark and his hair was darker, cut to his ears and curly, a beautiful man with soft eyes and lips. "And I am the one who will kill him." He began to sweep his hands, but stopped, putting them back in his lap. "Ah, but if I told you that I'd mess up things, wouldn't I? It's bad to tell people too much about the future, you know."

He swept his hands over his face once more, and he was back to normal. "I am everyone, and I am no one.", he concluded.

She sat there, a powerful mix of shock and awe written across her face.

"Take this road south for a fortnight, Lucca, and you will reach a town named Vellum. You'll find everything you asked of and…more." He gathered up his pack, standing, and waved farewell to her. "I will see you again, and when you least expect it. Ah, you're going to need this."

He ran his palm down the length his walking stick; and where stick had been was now a sword in a silver scabbard. It had a pink ribbon wrapped around the hilt, and the pommel was the shape of a pint with a flower wrapped around it, the symbol of The Atabara Inn. He handed it to her outstretched hands.

She pulled on the blade. It slid out of the scabbard without effort, pure steel, and she could see her reflection in it. It was lighter than most swords, light enough for her to wield with ease. The craftsmanship was remarkable; the blade and scabbard would be worth at least a golden dragon.

"Its name is Sting. Take care of it, for you will need it."

She looked up, but the hermit was gone. A dozen leaves, carried by the wind, swirled where he used to be. She looked around, not spotting the old man or anyone else.

She looked to the west into the sunset and took a deep breath. Lucca took large clothes salvaged from the ruins of The Atbara Inn and made three makeshift packs. She wrapped bread and cheese in one, her best inventions in the second, and the sword in the third. Slinging them across her back, she looked into the sun setting over the dusty, empty road heading south, and began the trek towards Vellum.

She realized, as she walked, that the mysterious hermit called her Lucca.

But she never told him her name.


	4. Chapter 4

AUTHORS NOTE: I know, the chapters are a bit short. They have a bit of a "rushed" feel to them, I've been told; this is mostly due to the lack of reviews I've gotten. However, I'm going to fix the chapters from now on. Bear with me, the chapters will be longer and more detailed as I tell the story I want to tell. Enjoy the story.

This chapter is for Melissa, who made me put Cersei in. Love you : )

-Jakkani

**CHAPTER FOUR: FELIX**

_The elves of Lorien are but a myth to some. In all three nations, there are perhaps 500 elves that still draw breath, mostly in the north near Greyjoy's Alcante Prison. In the ancient days, they were natural practitioners of Magicka. The Raven King, former leader of the humans, saw their proficiency in Magicka and considered it a threat. The humans betrayed the elves, and rampaged into their city killing everything hall because they considered them to be a possible danger for future humans._

_The humans eventually rebelled, forcing the Raven King north to the cold and frost of The North Beyond The Wall, where The Black Crows are ready to defend should he return._

_The humans then destroyed the Life Tree, and as a result most Magicka was drained from the world. Now the elves, without most Magicka and not having enough men to combat the numerous and ingenious humans, fled across the sea to New Lorien, a massive forest of elvish power. There they lived, hungering for their lost Magicka. The addiction to Magicka is still felt today, even in the descendents of ancient elves._

_They hunt to fill the gaps left in their lives by lack of Magicka. Over time, the elves became famed marksmen and hunters. The elves are also natural carpenters, and built sprawling towers and buildings to fill their days. As such, New Lorien is a city filled to the edges with buildings that are considered works of art that are barely occupied by the rare elves. _

Fitz had seen life outside of his cell.

So when his eyes slid open in his cell, in the darkness, he instantly lusted for the outside world. His head and arms were sore, his heart beat uneven, so he slept for many days. Once, as he was nearly asleep, he tried to form the lightning in his hands. There was a spark, and nothing more, no matter how hard he tried. He tumbled back into sleep again. Baird was in his cell when he awoke.

He said quietly, "Fitz, you can't use your Magicka on people like that. That's why you're here in the first place. Magicka is forbidden, you know. You need to keep it a secret." he continued talking in-between sips of the whiskey he had in a pouch. Fitz, on the edge of consciousness, was vaguely aware of being bandaged. Baird's words were too loud, the torch too bright. The dull pain that pounded behind his eyes, even weeks after the incident, pained him.

"I undressed the man who tried to kill you and put him in the arrow victim's clothing. Then I told them he killed you for being the last in the race and had disposed of your body in the river. If it wasn't for our facelessness, you'd have been dead by now. Don't try it again, I can only care about someone so much."

Fitz began to open his mouth, but it was numb and fuzzy. Baird answered his question before he could ask it, anyways. "Don't worry, the other prisoners won't tell on you. They have no reason to." Fitz lifted his shirt weakly. The flesh was still scarred and stretched like new skin from the lightning. He lay back and faded, again, into sleep.

Eventually, for "good behavior", he was now allowed to attend luncheon, where he met his first friend. Five years had passed since the incident, and the scar was still there.

The mess hall was a medley of guitars, flutes, ale, drums, and meat. And people, a lot of people—mostly guards. The only person his age that wasn't drunk was a boy with black hair pulled back into a ponytail and an apron with ash on it. Fitz took a seat across from him. He looked at him as he sat, and Fitz looked back at him.

He realized it was the boy that had shrugged off his touch six years earlier before he'd killed the guard. He realized, also, that they were both sitting there staring at each other.

A failed attempt at conversation.

So they ate in silence, and listened to the folk music the bards played and the drunken guards sang along to.

"A bear, there was a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown, and covered with hair ... "Oh, come," they said, "Oh COME to THE FAIR! THE FAIR?" Said he, "but I'm a BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN, AND COVERED WITH HAIR!"

People around the mess hall laughed drunkenly at the absurdly childish song. Even Fitz formed a tiny smile, and that doesn't happen often. The guy sitting across from Fitz seemed to notice him, finally looking up from his plate. "Can I help you?"

"No… not really…" He continued looking at Fitz with a raised eyebrow as if he were telling him an interesting story. Fitz half expected him to bite his head off after he said nothing. Instead, it was just another failed attempt at conversation.

"…And down the road from here to there. From HERE! TO THERE! Three BOYS, a GOAT, and a DANCING BEAR! DANCED AND SPUN, all the way to THE FAIR! THE FAIR! THE FAIR!"

"My name's Felix." He said, finally. "And Mine's Fitz. What are you in for?" Slight confusion flashed across his face.

"Oh, Sweet she was, and PURE, and FAIR! The MAID with HONEY in her HAIR!" The guards sang in unison, sloshing their beer out of their mugs.

"I'm not "in" for anything. Least as I want to be, I'm the son of the blacksmith." He rested his head on a hand. "I hate blacksmithing…"

Fitz took a second to reply, he was chewing."Then why do you do it?"

"He wants me to follow his path. And even if I wasn't supposed to take up his legacy, there isn't much surrounding us but a dock and a small trade town. I have nowhere to go, either way."

They continued the small talk, and Fitz found his first friend.

From what Fitz gathered, Felix was the son of the castle silversmith and his father's apprentice as well. He wanted to be an artist, and he often painted in his quiet dormitory- but his father, when he discovered the art, ripped it apart in a furious rage of disappointment. He hadn't painted since, but wished he could every day. He, unlike Fitz, had lived an almost normal life, albeit in a prison. He had two friends besides Fitz, their names being Jecht and Longshot. They often left the bar to be with Fitz at the table he, and now Felix, sat at every day.

Jecht, a dark skinned captured freedom fighter and bounty hunter, was a prisoner forced to work beside Felix in the forge. He talked a lot, and had ruffled brown short hair and high, roguish eyebrows. He often raised one eyebrow to the ceiling, or it seemed to Fitz, and was always chewing on a toothpick. He was known for his constant obscene jokes about the nearby women, funny as they might be.

Longshot, on the other hand, just sat next to Fitz and never said a word. He smiled often, and had the pitch black eyes of a hawk. His hair was long, and would be all the way down his back if it wasn't always in a ponytail. The only thing unique about him was a fingernail length vertical gap in his eyebrow. No one knew why Longshot was in prison, or his true name, for he never talked. His was, however, famous for his wordless womanizing and shows of marksmanship to The Warden. There was something trustworthy about him that Fitz sensed.

Fitz lay on the hay in his cell, on the border between sleep and consciousness. Today, he was forced to mine coal, which was a welcome change from sitting in his dank cage. After he was done he was tired, beyond tired, and had collapsed onto his "bed" as soon as he was put back in his cell. As he lay there, the swirling colors and music one hears when half-asleep took form, and evolved into childhood memories.

In his dreams, Fitz's mother carried him in a bundle of blankets through a forest. She was hurrying, trying to get somewhere. She didn't have a scared look on her face, but a longing one. She had short hair that wrapped around her face, and she was so warm he clung to her. They trekked through the thick forest, under vines and over fallen trees covered with moss. The smell of rain and life overwhelmed his tiny baby nostrils. They emerged into a clearing of the forest, where his father crouched with a short bow clutched in one leathery hand.

The other hand was resting on a dead deer, with a barbed arrow protruding from its throat. Blood stained its coat, and its dead eyes were filled with its last moment of fear. His mother covers Fitz's face at once, to shield him from the sight of the corpse. There were giggles heard from his mother as his father joked with her in a language he didn't yet understand.

She removed the blanket from his face to reveal his father looking down at him. They both looked at him and muttered words filled with love to each other. Baby Fitz laughed. Behind his father, Fitz could make out the crouched form of a tiger. The warm edges of the dream's vision were replaced with cold fear. The tiger, unseen by his parents, paced slowly up to them, prepared to pounce on his smiling fathers and mothers backs.

Fitz screamed, his wails mixing with his mother's cries of agony, cold sweat pouring down his face, as he flailed at the boot kicking him awake.

Felix had kicked him awake. Fitz could make out Longshot and Jecht at his back.

"We're leaving, and your coming with us."

Knocked completely off his horse by the other lance, he landed on his back in the dirt. The wind was completely knocked out of him. He reached up to lift his visor so he could breath, and gasped in air. This was the first time Jaime was bested in jousting, and he coughed up specks of blood. The victor, standing over him triumphantly, pulled off her helmet completely.

Caitlyn's hair was matted to her head with sweat. She panted heavily too, her face flushed completely.

"Sorry if I hurt you, Prince Jaime. Honest, I didn't mean to." She exhaled the words more than said them as she held out her hand to help him up. He lay there for a second, gathering his breath, before grabbing the hand and being pulled to his feet. His royal black and blue armor shone in the sun, the royal colors of Greyjoy. He coughed a little bit more, dusting himself off.

"Eh, I was asking for it. Challenging the greatest of my knights to a joust was a foolhardy thing to do. If anyone else was here, they would've seen that their prince could be bested, and tried to de-throne me. But you, Caitlyn, I can trust."

She petted her horse as she spoke. "It is an honor, sir, to be trusted."

"Well, I suppose you are the only woman knight for a reason. I'm sure you've had much more to prove than a male knight, and well earned I would like to add. There is no mightier hand in Greyjoy."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, they say, sir." _The Nine know I've been scorned enough._ But still, she smiled at him, and he smiled back. She was a very masculine woman, with big feet and hands, long blonde hair that fell down her back like straw, and a horse shaped face. In fact, the only redeeming things about her were her large blue eyes, with specks of purple in them, and her white beaming smile.

"Well, let's hope I never have to face such a woman in an actual battle." He went and fetched his horse from where it grazed on a patch of grass.

"Well, there aren't any woman knights other than me as far as I know, sir." She mounted her steed. It was a nice horse, strong, black, and healthy.

He pulled himself onto his own steed after feeding it an apple. It was white as milk, strong as iron, swift as a gust of wind. A truly royal horse for a prince.

Caitlyn rode her horse in front, as always, to protect him from an ambush. She was his chosen bodyguard, and hadn't been proven wrong yet.

"She doesn't have to be a knight for me to face her in battle. It could be my wife with a pot, attacking me from all sides."

Caitlyn laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. She was an odd woman, hideous and beautiful at the same time. She didn't have a response to that. They rode in silence for a while, through the royal garden, watching the butterflies float and the pink pedals fall from the trees. It was beautiful, he thought, and couldn't help but be reminded of his Cersei. He always longed for her; every moment he wasn't with her seemed wasted.

He had met her two years ago, a serving woman he'd seen from across the dining room as he ate. Their eyes connected, and before long he summoned her. She ate with him, and spoke with him, and he'd invited her to his room. The Jinrabashian woman had bent in ways he hadn't thought possible, making his every waking moment after that night lustful. Of course, a serving woman had no business with a prince, so they'd kept their love secret; which, for some reason, made everything all the more exciting. Everything he did reminded him of her.

They continued the walk through the garden and back to the castle. Two identical guards crossed their spears as they rode up to the gate, but upon realizing who they were uncrossed them and let them pass. Caitlyn looked back at him, turning her horse to face him, as they reached their parting way.

"Well, I'll be on my way now. It was a nice "walk" through the garden, my prince." She nodded in the directions of the two gate guards, who could easily hear what they were saying.

"Ah, yes. I do hope I get better at "walking" under your training."

"Good evening, sir." She rode away as he watched.

_She didn't wait for me to dismiss her… Does she see me more as a friend than as her prince?_

He let it go, going his own way. He followed the cobbled streets up to his castle, nodding at the villagers as they walked past. He kept his eyes on their hands as he walked. He might not be the greatest at jousting, but he was no fool either.

_My butt is asleep._

He decided to get off his horse and walk the streets on foot. The people praised him, begging for his touch as he walked past. It was annoying to walk the streets as a prince.

Something yanked on his cloak, ripping him away from his horse and into an alley between a butchers shop and a carpenter's shack. He wheeled around wildly, pulling his sword from his belt, but hands pushed it back into the sheath before it could slide out fully.

Lips fell upon his. He could recognize the taste of Cersei. She was scantily clad, wearing nothing but a royal blue shirt too big for her torso; it went down to her knees. He realized it was his shirt she was wearing. She pulled away from the surprised Jaime.

"What-?" Jaime was at a loss for words.

"I've been looking for you…Love me, Jaime. I've been needing you." He inhaled her scent, a sweet cinnamon, and felt the curve of her waist.

He felt light headed as she pulled him into another kiss, forcing him to put his hand in-between her own legs.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE: EVASION**

_The nations of Greyjoy and Raenlyn, although both human, are very different. _

_Greyjoy, Kingdom of The North, was the first human nation created, built by a small gathering of people. Being constantly raided by the Greenskins of Goron, they needed a leader. A carpenter, Muzagon Greyjoy, was appointed by a council of elders to lead a small band of warriors to fight the Greenskins. He led a building project for a wall to be built around Brume, the capital of Greyjoy. The Greenskins, a primitive band of Goblins, could not adapt to the wall and attacked it with swords and spears. As such, they were driven away until they were all but exterminated because of their inability to adapt._

_He then led a conquest to wipe the orcs from the earth, too, but only succeeded in pushing them back to a small corner of the globe. He also led a crusade against the Red Ship Raiders, who controlled the entire south, and pushed them back to their islands. This war, called The Red Ship War, caused Muzagon to be considered a hero in Greyjoy. The people loved him more and more, and eventually him and his soldiers were deemed The People's Shield._

_He returned after pushing the pirates back, conquering the kingdom he fought for, and proclaimed himself The Raven King. He killed the council elders, taking complete control of Greyjoy for himself. The people cheered on their new king._

_His first act as king was gathering the finest wizards in the world to make him a cloak, a cloak that would give him unbelievable agility and make him immortal, as long as he wasn't killed. Dying of old age was no longer an issue. This way, no one would ever challenge his power and his mind would be able to gain infinite knowledge with the time he now had. He didn't need an heir; unfortunately, his love for women caused him to give birth to a child named Tyrion._

_An Elf tried to assassinate Tyrion when he was seventeen. Muzagon, infuriated, decided that The Elves as a whole were a conspiring against him and razed The Life Tree and most of their towns. He slaughtered the Elves in their beds, and the people cried out for a hero to stop this. He was overthrown by his son, Tyrion Greyjoy, and forced to go North, beyond the wall he himself had built. He traveled even farther north, into The Forgotten Coast, a barren land of ice and dead trees. There he resides, trying to reclaim his kingdom with the few men still loyal to him._

_Raenlyn was originally a rebel faction of Greyjoy. The slaughtered men and women of numerous races rebelled against The Raven King and fled to the south. There they created Cairn, the Raenlyn capital, accepting all races that would come to them—those usually fleeing mass murder. They evolved into a powerful nation, led by Jon Stark The kingdom is growing too fast for its own good, however, and Jon Stark has risen the taxes in order to expand his nation._

_Raenlyn and Greyjoy rarely help each other in any war or matter because of their troubled past. While never actually declaring war on the other nation, the men and women of the two nations are mostly hated enemies because of their rival kings who refuse to forget the past._

Fitz sat in the darkness of his cage, trying to collect himself mentally. He wasn't sure that he had heard Felix correctly, or even if Felix was actually there. Felix nudged him again with his foot, to fully awaken him. Fitz, dazed and confused, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"…W...What?"

Longshot left them and went slowly down the prison block, silent. He stood behind the door to the cell block, completely still, listening for footsteps, as Felix and Jecht woke Fitz.

Jecht went from cell to cell, looking for other prisoners. There were none. So, he went to Baird's desk and started going through it. He found nothing of interest.

"Fitz, we have to go while we still can." He spoke clearly and slowly, as if Fitz were deaf. "We're leaving here. Me and Jecht can't bloody take it anymore, and Longshot offered to help us get out. Before we left, I remembered you and the urge for freedom I've seen in your eyes before. We risked a lot coming back for you; we have to go now, though. The guards will be finished changing shifts soon, ya?" Felix extended a hand to Fitz.

He grabbed it, and Felix helped him up. "Thanks, Felix. I-""Longshot, take point. Fitz, shut the hell up until we get out of here. A fist means stay with still, an open hand danger, and waving means move to that location. Ya?" Fitz nodded, afraid to say a word.

With that, Longshot put his ear to the door for a moment. After a minute of making sure there was no one on the other side of the door, he swung it open slowly and ghosted out of the cell block into the dark hallway. Jecht followed, just as quiet, and Fitz followed on the heel of Felix.

They continued down the pitch black stone hallway, with the occasional torch making Longshot and Jecht visible to Fitz. They passed a smaller hallway that branched off the main one, and Longshot formed a fist barely visible in the darkness. Jecht, Felix, and Fitz flattened themselves against the wall under a torch as Longshot peeked around the corner.

Fitz could faintly make out the footsteps of more than likely two approaching men. Longshot motioned to Jecht, who lightly grabbed the torch off the wall and stomped it out. There they sat in the darkness, flattened against the cold stone wall, as the two guards walked past them. Fitz's adrenaline ran as he held his breath and tried to squeeze as much against the wall as possible. He could feel the tip of their shoulder pads as they passed, but they seemed to not notice the completely silent convicts. As the guards passed them and walked further down the hall, he could feel Felix leave his side, chasing after them. There were sounds of a muffled struggle, and Fitz feared for the lives of his friends.

Light grew and grew, out of nowhere, to reveal Felix holding a fire balanced and floating above the palm of his hand. It grew until it bathed all of them in a dull light. Baird and Earl sat there, bound by their own handcuffs and stuffed with gags, with Longshot and Jecht behind them. The curved knife in Jecht's hand glinted off the fire that Felix apparently knew how to conjure. Fitz stepped back in horror and shock at Felix, the only other person who he'd ever seen use Magicka. The memories of him electrocuting a lion flashed before his eyes. Felix, staring into the eyes of Baird and Earl, did not notice. A single sentence said by Felix, shattered the silence.

"Do we need to kill you?" Earl's eyes widened as he frantically shook his head, unable to speak. Baird just stared into Fitz's eyes. "Follow us, or alert any guards, and we'll slit your throats. Know my power and fear it, and don't you dare betray us." Jecht strode over, stride silent as a falling feather, unhooking the ring of keys that hung at Baird's belt. He smiled at Longshot, glancing down the hall they'd come down. Longshot and Jecht knew many of the people in that dark prison, and they couldn't leave them here to die in the dark after they escaped. Jecht looked to Longshot as if asking permission with his eyes. He nodded, and Jecht took off down the dark hallway.

The flame Felix held in his hand grew and grew, to make a massive swirling ball of fire in his hand. Then, it disappeared just as suddenly as it was there—the last thing Fitz saw being Baird's eyes. Such a fire produced no smoke. There was a grunt in the darkness, and Fitz knew it was the Magicka backlash Felix was fighting through. Longshot's footsteps ran past Fitz in the darkness, and Felix stumbled past too. He grabbed Fitz's hand and pulled him along in the dark hallways of Alcante.

Longshot and Jecht, after catching up with them, evaded a dozen and subdued another dozen Alcante prison guards on the way to the castle walls. When they actually did strike, they attacked as one, obviously having fought together hundreds of times before. Fitz and Felix followed the path of unconscious bodies, Fitz stayed back with Felix, his eyes darting around for potential danger. They eventually made their way to the criss-crossing gate that blocked their exit, where Felix superheated the air in front of his pointer finger to have a makeshift blowtorch. He cut a hole through and the proceeded slowly. Fitz was tired and starved, but he knew that it would be worth when they left the prison. The front gate was far too well guarded for them to run through, so they planned to take the marshal hostage. They walked ever so slowly up to his room at the highest point of the keep.

It overlooked most of the prison. They arranged themselves so that Fitz and Felix were behind the door should the warden bolt and Jecht had his knife out near the door. Longshot looked down from the highest point of the keep, evaluating every point of it.

Jecht opened the door at an inhumanly slow speed, looking around inside before opening it more and sneaking in. Fitz followed them, Felix and Longshot making up the rear. They were all crowded inside the same lavish room that Fitz had been in before. Everything was the same as he remembered it years ago except a small wooden balcony had been built so that the Warden could look out over the ocean.

The Warden, however, was not here. Jecht searched the rooms with his trademark check mark shaped knife, but didn't find anything.

They decided to wait, then, until he came back. He was always in his office—or if he wasn't, he'd be back soon. Or so they figured. They waited quietly for hours, until the moon was fully in the sky.

A sword in a green scabbard caught Fitz's eye as they waited in ambush. It glinted with the moonlight, the scabbard being elaborately painted with flowers and intertwining and weaving patterns. The hilt was wrapped in black, and seemed as if it called to him. He reluctantly picked it up off the hooks that suspended it on the wall, and held it. The others seemed to pay no mind—Felix sharpened his sword, Longshot stood motionless as a statue staring out the door at the walkway, and Jecht was looting as much as he could fit in his now absurdly bulging shirt.

_Its beautiful…_, Fitz thought. He slowly pulled the sword out of the scabbard, it seemed to glide out. The blade was slightly leaf shaped, sharp on both sides of the blade, and made of stainless steel that was ground until sharp as possible. It seemed to speak to him, whispers that he couldn't make out. This blade was a work of art. As he watched it, the blade began glowing. At first, it barely noticed; Fitz thinking it was a tint of green. Then it grew and grew, until the blade was engulfed in green. Felix and the others turned to look at Fitz, for the glow was now lighting the whole room.

The door of the room opened, and The Warden stood with a confused look at glowing Fitz. Without a second thought, he sprinted away from his own room door and down the stairs, screaming "GUARDS!" He called on his own for a while, and then whistles started sounding. It all happened so fast that none of them reacted. They stood there in the now fading light of the sword, glaring at Fitz. Jecht slapped a hand on his forehead. Fitz just stood there awkwardly with the sword in his hand. Longshot spoke, for the first time since Felix had known him.

"Fucking Fitz."

Men burst into the room, two at a time, with swords drawn. Fitz, Felix, Longshot, and Jecht backed to the balcony, Jecht with his knife out. Longshot had picked up a trophy and held it over his head preparing to strike, and Felix formed a small ball of fire behind his back that only Fitz saw. Fitz drew the sword and held it out with a shaky hand. The guards, eight now, were edging towards them as more filed in. Eventually, they had nowhere to back up to except out onto the balcony.

Felix's fire grew until it was visible by the guards, and he tossed it into the center of the approaching men. Their helmets turned down in unison at the fire as it seemed to rage _around_ their bodies, refusing to touch them. Wisps of smoke drifted off of the guards, which could only be produced by Ice Magicka. The magic fire, afraid of its opposing element, merely burnt the carpet beneath them.

Felix created another ball of fire, and grew it until it was as big as a fist. The sweltering heat warped the air as he held it in front of him. The guardsmen, in response, waved their arms in unison, raising ice from the ground to the ceiling to make a makeshift wall. Felix turned, undaunted, and shot the fire past a ducking Jecht at the balcony.

The wooden balcony exploded, and it wilted off the side of the stone tower. Felix looked down the now vacant side of the tower at the swiftly moving river far below. He was afraid of water. Jecht looked back at the explosion and back at Felix.

"THAT ALMOST HIT ME! YOU-!"

Longshot tackled Jecht, throwing him out the gaping hole and falling with him. Felix had collapsed by this time from the Magicka whiplash, holding his head as tears streamed down his cheeks with his face contorted in pain. Fitz helped him up, and put one of Felix's arms around his shoulder, his mouth still silently yelling in earth shattering pain. The ice wall came down as he hobbled towards the edge, and the guards surged forward trying to kill him before he could leap down.

He looked down with fear at the swirling waters of the river far below, beyond the jagged cliffs. Jecht and Longshot had already landed, but Fitz couldn't see where in the rushing waters. His fear made him hesitate, and a sword slashed his back. He felt oddly cold, but was warmed by the blood running down his back and arms. Sharp pain blossomed in his mind as he was vaguely aware of falling off with his back gashed open and spurting his life blood, plunging towards the water at breakneck speed, with Felix crying in his arms, blinded with pain and oblivious to the world.


	6. Chapter 6

AUTHORS NOTE: I've been getting complaints that chapters five and six were too short. That is because they were originally planned to be one long chapter, and I had to cut it in half so I could get Raenlyn AND Greyjoy's history in. I will try to keep the chapter length consistent from now on. Also, if you are reading, reviews would be appreciated.

-Jakkani

P.S; To all the fan girls who have begged and pleaded: No, I will not make Fitz a homosexual.

**CHAPTER SIX: VAGRANT**

_Not much is known about The Raven King's army. Some claim that it is a band of warrior tribes united by Muzagon after his banishment to The North beyond the Wall. Some claim that there are ghosts covered in knight's armor that hover around in the North beyond the Wall, killing all Black Crows that they meet. Others swear that there are walking corpses who will not die, and are only harmed by fire. Either way, The Raven King has men, or beasts, that fight for him._

_Some barbarians live in war camps close to Durin's Shield; they spend their lives trying to breach it and invade Greyjoy and Raenlyn. The raids at Durin's Shield are a constant occurrence, happening at least once a fortnight, and the Black Crows must rain down arrows on them just as often. _

_To counteract the raids Lord Tyrion Greyjoy created The Black Crows shortly after becoming king. The Black Crows are a group of rangers designed to man the wall and ride out to fight those who would destroy it. Convicts given the death penalty or life in prison would be allowed to live if they joined The Black Crows. If they served for six years without dying, they would be pardoned of their crimes. Unfortunately, not many Rangers survive that long._

"Find him!" Tyrion screamed, his voice hoarse and cracking. "Find my son!"

His face was beet red underneath his crown, getting even redder as he screamed in rage. His black hair was swept back behind his ears, and a vein bulged from his forehead in anger.

"I will not have my son assassinated! Find him before he is murdered!" Caitlyn slammed shut her visor, saluting the king.

"Aye, sir. It shall be done, my Lord." Tyrion massaged his temples as Caitlyn turned, shutting his bedroom door behind her.

_Damnit, I didn't ask where he was last. How am I supposed to find him?_

She tried to scratch her head, but realized she was wearing her helmet and plate armor. She had had gotten used to wearing the heavy steel so much that she could barely tell when she was and wasn't wearing it. She rattled the sword that hung at her hip, keeping it loose in case she needed to pull it out, and strode off down the hallway; her cloak, the Greyjoy colors of black and blue, flowed behind her as she walked briskly.

_I'll check the outhouse first. The king will have a laugh when he sees that he had sent out a search party after Jaime, who was merely using the bathroom._

Jaime and Cersei, on the other hand, didn't want to be found.

Jaime was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his head, not believing what he had done. He knew he shouldn't have been here; he knew he shouldn't have done that, again and again. The kingdom would be in an uproar over the disappearance of their prince; his father, Tyrion, especially.

Cersei's arms were wrapped around him from behind, smelling the scent of his hair. She had seduced him, again, and he had fallen for it, again. She squeezed him lightly as she spoke. "You're the best I've ever had."

He stopped thinking for a moment, overwhelmed with curiosity. "How do you mean? The best lover?"

"Aye, the best lover. And not just in bed, my prince, but you're a great man." She squeezed him harder as she spoke. "From the crinkle between your eyebrows you get when you're stressed to the way you kiss my body. The scent of your hair, the way you speak… I'm glad I can call you mine."

He had no response for that.

He wanted nothing more than to run away with this woman, this serving girl, to a faraway place.

_To Jinrabash, perhaps, where kings and lords mean nothing. That way, we could live together in harmony._

_But not here; a serving girl has no place being married to prince._

"I have to go." He pushed her away. She sat there on the bed, arms wrapped around her nakedness. She looked very cold to Jaime; nevertheless, he began putting back on his clothes. "I want to enjoy you, Jaime, while you last."

He stopped putting on his clothes, flinching with realization.

"While I last…?"

He barely had time to inhale before the knife was there, touching his throat. It pressed into his flesh, almost to the point of piercing his skin. She was behind him; he could feel her quickened breath on his neck.

"I'm sorry, but duty comes first…I love you, Jaime. This I didn't lie about…" The door of the room was kicked open, off the hinges, to reveal Caitlyn. Her sword was already drawn, clenched tightly in her metal fist.

"Drop the blade, assassin!" Demanded Caitlyn, her voice muffled behind the helmet. "I'll kill you, I swear it!"

"I'm sorry, knight, but I've got to do what I've got to do..." her muscles tensed as she began to pull on the blade. Jaime inhaled, scared to death. "And I'm sorry to you, too, Jaime…"

Caitlyn rushed them, knowing what was coming next…

The town of Vellum seemed to approach at an impossibly slow speed. Lucca sat on the back of a straw wagon pulled by horses, a traveler's fantasy. She had traveled for days towards Vellum, and a cart had luckily passed her that happened to be going to same way. Cherok, the friendly old man who offered to give her a ride, was delivering horses, straw, wheat, and wine to Vellum.

The view from the back of a wagon can be quite incredible on a good day, and so it was to Lucca. On her left, the spring countryside passed by slowly, dotted with the occasional cottage. One cottage had two children fist fighting in the yard, both with red teary eyes filled with hate. Another had a father chopping wood to a steady rhythm while puffing a pipe. The grass was incredibly green, and only seemed to shine more with the light of the sun. The sky couldn't get bluer. On her right, a lake spread endlessly until it met the horizon. The lake was so clear; it looked like a mirror reflecting the sky. She didn't know where the sky began and the lake ended.

Every once and a while, Lucca turned and looked over the cart at the slowly approaching Vellum. It was an odd village, only having a wooden stake wall surrounding it where most would have a stone wall. It was nothing more than a small trading town built between the fishing villages and the lumber chopping camps. Now, with the recent emigrants leaving Raenlyn because of the army draft, its population swelled—it was placed neatly between Raenlyn and Greyjoy, and was a checkpoint for travelers. Because it was spring, even more people filled the small city to its walls.

It was still far far away, approaching at an impossible slow rate. Lucca had nothing to do but lay there. The slow rhythm of the cart and the sun on her face slowly rocked her to sleep, into something between a dream and a memory.

That day was vivid in her memory, a blazing and proud sun met by a sea of green grass that flowed with the breath of the wind. It was oddly beautiful, especially for such a terrible occurrence. Jenny fled through the tall grass, tears streaming down her young face. Lucca followed, trying to calm her, but the rusty iron crossbow's bolt protruding from her thigh limited her movement. She hobbled after to the best of her ability, but Jenny, in a mad panic, ran much faster than her.

Jenny ran and ran until her legs couldn't take her away from that man anymore. She grabbed a pebble as big as her fist and hurled it back in his direction, screaming in fury and hurt. He was too far to be hit; in fact, he was too far away to be seen. She threw rock after rock until there was nothing left to throw and collapsed in the grass, sobbing quietly. Lucca finally emerged from the tall grass and knelt beside her, ignoring the dull pain that grated against her nerves.

She tried to help Jenny up, but at first she slapped the hand away. Finally she accepted the hand and stood on two shaky legs. A single trickle of blood ran down the inside of her thigh. They had to get out; they had to leave before her father found them.

She awoke, cold sweat on her forehead, to Cherok standing over her. It was nighttime, and they were in a clearing in the forest. He stood over her with a knife, trying not to wake her as he edged towards her. She was confused, and opened her mouth to ask if they were in danger. When he saw her eyes open, he grabbed her by the hair, and put the dull knife to her face while she was still trying to form a sentence.

His arms were long and skinny, but strong like rope. His grip was like iron, holding her in place while she struggled to get free. The knife flashed before her eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**AUTHORS NOTE:** I continue to right the story, despite the lack of reviews. I have around 100 hits a week, so obviously someone somewhere is enjoying the tale of Fitz and Felix. I will continue valiantly to tell the story I have to tell, although reviews would be greatly appreciated at this point. Read on, fans, read on.

-NetherscreamNordune

**CHAPTER SEVEN: HALFLING**

_The jungle filled Jokoto Islands are an odd place. A collection of islands near the southern tip of Raenlyn, they are known for the Red Ship Raiders. Most of the Red Ship Raiders don't actually raid at all, instead smuggling Jinni into Raenlyn and Greyjoy—an illegal plant used by monks to conjure "spirits" and used by goblins to invoke berserking. Not all islanders are hated, however. The famed warriors of Jinrabash are respected from everywhere in the great nations. The prosperous people of Tojo are also respected; a free utopia where all weapons and hate are banned from the public. _

_Greenskins usually lead a very aggressive and war like life-style. Because of this, there are limited amounts of Greenskins living in the jungles of Tojo. They migrated there in ancient times, their bodies eventually adapting to become taller, semi-purple, stronger, and smarter. There they build primitive settlements and thrive off the abundant mushrooms. Greenskins that live in Tojo are deemed "Trolls". Half breeds of races also live here, unaccepted by either of their parent's nationalities. There are rumors of extremely rare races living here, including mountain giants, talking trees, untamed wizards, and dragons. However, by the time the truth leaves Tojo and rumors spread across the nations, it's hard to tell which are lies and which are true. Only the inhabitants of Tojo know the truth of their exotic land._

The first thing he was aware of was the sensation of his hand dragging through the hot desert sands; his eyes slid open enough to view the surroundings. It took his mind a while to comprehend what he was seeing. The bars of a cage surrounded him. He was dreaming; but had awoken so fast he wasn't sure if he was awake. He was lying on his stomach, and tried to move; but his mind swam, and his limbs didn't respond to his will. He looked around, coughing and sputtering, with cold sweat running down his head. A dark skinned man sat near him, wrapped in a turban, pocketing a sowing needle. There were bristling lions all around them in cages; the sand was soft and warm under the cart Fitz rode in: a caravan of sorts, with lions, elephants, and men in cages wearing ragged loincloths. The sun beat down on them harshly; he was filled with the smell of heat, rotting meat, and sweat.

His voice got Felix's attention. "Don't die, they'll feed you to the lions;" he said with a heavy foreign accent through the turban," They're worth more than us." Felix looked into his brown eyes, his brain not comprehending where he was or what this man was doing. The man in the turban tore open Felix's ragged shirt and smeared a lime green paste on the puss filled scar on his back. The wound had been sown up, but had apparently festered. Felix's hand sluggishly groped around for something to defend himself with; instead, he reached up and began to wrap his hand around the man's throat and stop him, but the twinging pain of the scar as he turned hurt just a little too much; his weak body easily gave up, letting his head fall back, drifting once again into unconsciousness. The last thing he thought of was his father.

His parents were ravaged by the panther as he watched.

It was a large panther, larger than a man, with an albino coat. His father, the only one able to defend them, was caught unaware and clawed to death. It turned its attention from his fathers corpse to them…his mother sharply inhaled, turning and fleeing through the brush. Fitz, still in her arms, cried. But she wasn't fast enough, or strong enough, so all she could do was scream until she too was shredded, clutching her son to her chest. Her eyes darkened, the light of life leaving them,

Something told him to be completely still, and that's what he did; looking into his mothers dead eyes as the panther tore chunks of bright red flesh from her back, slinging blood against the surrounding tree trunks. He shuddered with fear, and the panther stopped. It was silent for a second, then pawed her mother off him. A red bestial eye settled on Fitz before it bared its teeth to him. It roared and slashed at Fitz, tearing ribbons of flesh out of him. He knew he was going to die; in fact, he didn't even feel pain anymore. Hazy and lightheaded, he held out a single hand.

Lightning came to life and flashed from his palm, rushing out to meet the panther. It roared a death roar, clawing at the air as it fell on top of him. He lay there, in the forest, surrounded by his fathers death and his mothers blood, an albino cougar on top of him, Magicka whiplash tearing at his sanity.

Fitz awoke from his nightmare, vaguely aware of riding on the back of something hairy. A horse, perhaps. He was blind, mouth gagged with cloth, and his hands were behind his back. He tried to free his hands. They were tightly bound by something that rubbed his skin raw. He could feel the rain beating down on his head, and his clothes were heavy with water. His face was pressed into the wet cloak of another person who was more than likely guiding the beast. Fitz struggled to sit up on his own, pressing his chin into the other's back and gritting his teeth.

"I see you've awoken… "The male rider said, his voice clear and smooth as water. He said nothing more, and Fitz sat there listening to the rain beat down. He heard much more rain than he felt, so he assumed that he was under trees. He had been fed since his capture, he could feel it. What used to be a headache was still a dull throb behind his eyes. And his legs weren't tied together. He could escape. Other than that, he knew not where he was or who his captor was—whether friend or foe.

He sat there, blind to the world for what seemed like forever. Hours turned into days, how many Fitz couldn't tell. The horse steadily plodded on continuously, never stopping. The rider never rested or went for food, his back as rigid as the moment Fitz first woke up. After staying in this darkness for what seemed like forever, Fitz decided to take control back.

Fitz suddenly reared back and slammed the back of the riders head with his own forehead. Both of them grunted in pain as the horse lunged with surprise, toppling both of them off balance. Fitzlanded with a thud in the wet grass, and eventually managed to stand without using his tied hands. He made a mad dash for freedom, not sure which direction he was going.

He barely went ten feet before tripping.

He landed on top of a particularly jagged rock which effectively gashed his stomach. He rolled off it into the grass. Suddenly realizing he could free himself, he began rubbing the rope on the rock. A sudden hand grasped his hair and pulled him to his feet while Fitz struggled to free himself. The rope hadn't been cut, but it was weakened enough for him to break. He tore his hands apart and swatted away the hand holding his hair. With the other hand, he tore at his blindfold.

Hooded figures stood around him in a half circle with longbows nocked and pointed at his face. An oddly docile albino bear pawed around in the high grass behind them, with a saddle on it. The bowmen stood motionless in the almost horizontal rain. Fitz's back was to a rock, and he had no way of escaping. He backed to the wall even more, and the faceless archers neared him slowly.

He reached down to his side to realize the sword he'd stolen no longer hung there. His body, driven by the instinct to survive, dove headfirst into the mental river of Magicka. His hands fizzled and sparked in the rain, glowing a dull white, the lightning he only saw once before making an attempt to survive in the heavy rain. He concentrated, taking as much of the power into him as he dared. But still, the rain fell and snuffed his Magicka. Fitz was dully aware of the leftmost man lowering his longbow in confusion, then dropping his bow completely. He held his own hand out, palm up, as if he held a ball.

Fitz blinked with shock as the power he was building left him completely. It flowed out of his palm to the man's outstretched hand, a glowing crimson stream not unlike if someone were sucking up steam. Fitz slapped his wrist, grabbed it, and tried to block the flow, but still it flowed through his attempts. He felt his legs give out, his heartbeat slow, and the edges of his vision dull. He no longer felt the blades of grass under him or the rain falling as much, but struggled to avoid going into unconsciousness again. This might be his only chance to escape alive.

"_Sin dorei, lan vorei anadorei Rumil!"_

The draining stopped. Yet another hooded figure strode out of the forest, out of the protection of his shadows. He wore a clasp that was silver, and Fitz assumed that he was the sergeant. The man that drained him turned to face the captain.

"_Yerslovi baracht mudlimi ahlum, lullium berast! Atonse, persei apenonei PERDONETE!"_ the sergeant yelled at the scorned bowman. The sergeant, seeming to just notice Felix, turned to him. "I'm sorry; our people are very….drawn to the Magicka they themselves cannot conjure. My name's Valandil of Mithrandir and I am the leader of these scouts." Fitz looked at each of them, confused. They began talking lightly amongst themselves while still holding the bows strung, like hunters discuss about a fawn before they kill it.

The sergeant pulled back his hood to reveal eyes that shone with dull silver light, as if a piece of the moon were contained in his pupils. His face was as perfectly sculpted as imaginable, and his ears were long and pointed and hung back from his face. His hair was lightly braided and in a ponytail, and he had a silver circlet around his head.

"Elves…?" Fitz muttered.

"Yes, they are Elves," said Valandil; "And they say that you breathe so loud they can shoot you in the dark. Lucky for you, I am part human. You would've otherwise been killed the instant your blindfold fell." His voice was even and smooth, but his words came in clumps. Fitz could tell he wasn't used to speaking Common.

Abruptly, Fitz couldn't hear anything. Instead, he heard a low rumbling that slowly increased. He now knew the silence before the storm, the storm being the Magicka whiplash that would rend his mind in two. He held his head, and got down on his knees. One of the elves dropped their bows and screamed soundlessly in slow motion at the captain, who came rushing over with a purple paste on his finger. He thrust it into Fitz's mouth and smeared it in his gums.

White pain filled everything he knew, until his brain couldn't comprehend it. He had no sense of where he was or who he was, except that his mind wanted to flee his crippled body. Pain wasn't a concept, his name wasn't Fitz. He wasn't in the forest and he wasn't suffering from using Magicka.

All that existed was searing pain.

Fitz was aware of a release, a haven from the pain. A mental river of sorts, of which all living things are part of. He longed to throw himself into it and become one with the world; he edged near the river and was filled with a sense of danger, like a hand shying away from a fire. He drew back, and searched for a vessel to place his soul in. He was a swallow looking down on the elves bent over his former self and was himself at the same time. He was a wolf that stalking through the forest, but his soul told him that was wrong. And so he grudgingly went back fully into his own body where he belonged.

He was on the ground in the fetal position still clutching his head. His muscles were cramped and his wide open eyes were sticky. He forced them closed and inhaled like someone emerging from water. His heart starting beating again and his muscles were cramped. He managed to get one hand to his eyes and knuckle them until relieving tears ran, restoring moisture to his dried pupils. He coughed a bug out of his mouth, and rolled over. The Elves still stood over him, worried faces and all, and helped him to his feet. It still rained.

"_Venn dai le luun, sercasten sabrei." _One of the nearby elves, which Fitz now saw was making a campfire, stood and ghosted into the woods, bow in hand. Fitz's head sagged on his shoulders, so he could only manage to look at the captains leather boots as he spoke to him.

"You almost killed yourself…" Fitz tried to reply, but all that came out of his dried throat was a croak.

"The Magicka you drew was far too much for a human to handle… your mind would've been split in two had I not used Lillroot." He took a vial of the paste out of his vest pocket and spun it skillfully in Fitz's view. "Lillroot…It's amazing, the only herb known to dull pain from Magicka. I used too much; your body was frozen for hours. Your heart beat once a minute; you were on the edge of life… but you seemed to recover fine." He stuffed the vial away.

"We're going to have to blindfold you again;" He said as he walked away;"we can't have humans knowing about the location of our Galadriel." He shouted "_Vashienen palene valanash alanore!"_, and a weak Fitz was blindfolded by his men and sat back on the albino bear.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT: SPLIT ROADS**

_There are many splinter factions within the Great Nations._

_The Black Hand is a group of elite assassins loyal to Greyjoy. Usually former Jinrabashian slaves, they are trained to be the most agile, resourceful, and lethal bodyguards conceivable. They are proficient in the uses of Magicka and arms, making them the ultimate mental and physical warriors. However, their methods of stealth and murder are controversial and frowned upon in most nations. As such, they are usually underground and heavily hidden._

_The Vanguard is a union of Magicka users formed by the old alliance of Elves, Dwarves, and Men. The Council of Magi are the leaders of this union. Three each of the most powerful elves, humans, and dwarves are handpicked by their according leaders to represent them in the council. They serve to defend against Necromancy, Warlockism, and other nefarious users of Magicka. They fight for the rights of Magicka users, but are also present on the Emperor's battlefields. _

_The Upstreamers are a small group of religious humans who walk east eternally. They believe that if they go to the source of the eastern winds, they will reach the source of all creation. Parents give birth to their children on the road, always on the move except for the occasional straggler who settles in a nearby town. It is unknown who started this religion, but it is passed to the traveler's children, and their children. _

_The Scarlet Hand are a group of pyromantic wizards who believe that Wyverns still exist. They were once a beast ridden as often as a horse, but eventually passed from this world because of their over usage in wars. They travel around all of Arian searching for a Wyvern egg to mate with the one they currently possess, hopefully resurrecting the ancient Wyverns._

_The White Lions are a small group of traveling elves who have Magicka bonds with albino lions or bears. They do not truly belong to any major nation, rather helping out whenever they can. They are esteemed hunters, having the enhanced senses of their spirit partner but retaining their human shape, thinking, and reasoning. Most people don't know one is a White Lion until his spirit partner strides out of the forest behind its owner._

_Dwarves are stoic, and as such can not cope with massive loss; the destroying of their city, the passing away of their king, or even the dying of a close friend. As such, they roam the land beyond Durin's Wall with a suicidal mind. Dwarves consider suicide the ultimate cowardice, and as such pit themselves against the strongest of beasts. These dwarves are called The Slayers. The weaker Slayers are filtered out by being killed, and as such all surviving Slayers are some of the strongest, toughest, and most fearless dwarves. Unfortunately, they roam and are not a single group; and as such, they cannot be called upon to defend any nation._

_To combat The Raven King, the council labored to create their own immortal soldiers in The Immortal Project. The experiment was part success; five immortals were born: Kaim the human of Raenlyn, Kokoro the human of Greyjoy, Khael the High Elf of Lorien, Kent the Dwarf of Steelforge, and Claera the Dark Elf of Darkshire; but flawed in that they lost their memories every 100 years. These five immortals are deemed Striders; they travel from battle to battle and offer their services as mercenaries to make a living. Over time, the failed experiments faded from memory and are seen as just mercenaries, traveling the land and wondering if their immortality is a curse or a blessing. _

One of the militiamen standing at Vellum's makeshift gate held up a hand. He strode up to Lucca, his stubbed leather vest shining in the sun. He stopped before her, resting one hand on his hilt and holding her jaw with the other. He turned her face, looking into her eyes, inspecting her like a recently caught fish. He looked down at her body, but it was wrapped in a thick cloak.

"Grow some whiskers; you look like one of them' Jokoto pansies." His breath was heavy with alcohol. He turned to Cherok. "He goin' to the barracks?"

Cherok nodded.

"And you? What's your business?"

"Horses and hay,", Cherok huffed; "Spices and seeds." He nodded, but turned back to Lucca. He was about to ask her name when Cherok spoke up. "Let us go, spare an old man this summer heat. I've seen enough hot days."

He stood there for a second, then finally let go of Lucca's jaw and waved them past. The sun beat down on the bustling marketplace, making it even hotter than it was. The sweaty crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder, and the waves of heat were visible. Cherok's cart wouldn't be able to maneuver through such a thick crowd; they left it in the small patch of trees outside of town.

Lucca shuffled in her sack and pulled out five Imperions, grabbing Cherok's hand and stuffing it with the currency. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head and closed his hand around the rusted coins. She knew Cherok well enough to know that he didn't talk much; and she, of course, didn't talk at all. She touched him on the shoulder, taking one last look at his wrinkled old smile, and left him for the inn.

Lucca lightly touched the bruises on her neck as she thought about how she had parted ways with Cherok. He had saved her life by giving her a place to live. An orphan girl wouldn't be allowed to join the militia in Vellum, but an orphan boy would be taken under the general's wing, fed and clothed until he became a soldier. He tried to cut her hair in her sleep, but she had awoken in a fit of fear.

What used to be shoulder length pitch black locks was now black fuzz. She wasn't too happy about being passable for a boy, but if it gave her a place to live…

She bumped something while she thought, a man who was taller than her. He had the eyes of a raptor, silver and green at once. He had a tooth pick in his mouth, shaggy brown hair, and thin eyebrows. She knew this because he looked down at her, expecting her to apologize, but she didn't. She merely stared back at him defiantly, then walked past him.

Jecht wouldn't apologize to her.

_I'm not going to apologize to her; she's the one who bumped into me anyways._

Something told Jecht that if he didn't say something now, though, he'd never see her again.

"Wait! Wait…"

She looked back at him, her hand folding around something under her cloak. He'd never forget how she looked then, her figure outlined by the setting sun, aggressively green eyes hit with just the right amount of light. He walked up to her, hands at his sides, to show that he meant no harm. She kept her eyes on his hands, even as he walked up and stood in front of her.

"Are you looking for the barracks? I've just come from there…I can show you…if you want. You know, where it is..." And there it was, the first woman to ever make him stumble in his words.Out of words to say, he merely gave her his most charming smile.

Staring into his eyes, she could tell he meant no harm. Lucca let he hand fall from the hilt of her dagger back to her side, turning to face him fully. He was cute, sure, but she was born mute; still she nodded, and flashed a smile of her own.

Jecht assumed she wasn't talking because she was just shy. He ignored her silence, and walked with her down the dusty roads of Vellum, talking about life as a soldier in Vellum. He made her laugh, which he was proud of, but she never talked back; just listening. According to him, his name was Jecht, an orphan who had been taken in by the military after being found in a town ransacked by The Redship Raiders. They walked on and on and he talked and talked, and he was happy he met this stranger.

Lucca was disappointed to see that the barracks size was exaggerated by Jecht. It was a small collection of buildings on a hill; a stone armory with a row of steps leading to the roof of it, sleeping quarters, a single crumbling tower, a mess hall, and a statue of Lord Tyrion Greyjoy with bird droppings draped across it. They walked up the stone steps and sat on top of the armory, watching the sun set over the trees of the nearby forest.

From there he gestured at each of the buildings, telling her where to sleep, eat, and fight. He knew that she was cross-dressing in order to become a soldier, but he didn't seem to mind that at all. After he told her everything she needed to know and the sun had long set, he asked her name.

Lucca looked up at the stars, wondering how best to tell him. She made an L with her fingers, an U, C,C, and an A—which was harder than all of them. He understood, but asked her why she didn't talk. She couldn't answer, instead staring at him and wanting to say so much. He took out a crumpled piece of parchment from his trousers and unfolded it, taking out a piece of lead as well. The men patrolling the barracks looked at them oddly, but kept their distance. Jecht had nothing better to do but sit here all night with this girl he just met and come up with a sign language they could call their own.

The sun was coming up when they finally said goodbye, promising to meet again at the same spot the next day to practice the signed language. Jecht left to take his shift in the watch tower, Lucca to sleep before the big day of applying to the militia.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE: KAIM THE IMMORTAL**

_Valyrians, a type of bull-man, roam the plains of Greyjoy. Because of their shocking shape and stature to humans, they live in solitude. They were once prosperous and numerous, until an elf by the name of Kent Valmana cast a spell on the whole of their race that crippled their reproduction. Now, only one in one thousand Valyrians aren't stillborn. The whole of their existence began to be denied, as they are rarely sighted. However, they are rumored to be the most powerful Magicka users ever created, even above The Council. However, even with their prowess in Magicka, they cannot reverse the spell that ravaged their race._

_The Valyrians are led by Kulm Stronghorn, one of the results of The Immortal Project. He is also one of the few Valyrians who possess a shamanistic Magicka in his nation. He has led his nation for eons, keeping them a peaceful nation that strays from wars. He is a giant among Valyrians, standing at nine heads tall over the average Valyrian of seven heads tall._

Kaim treks across the mountaintops of southern Raenlyn, heading north. The rain and wind fell so heavily that it stung his face, and he had to cover it with his arms like someone who's being attacked. He could barely walk against the wind, putting all his strength into a single step. Step after step he continued north, enduring the maelstrom that attempted to force him back. He fought through the tornado force winds, his long brown hair whipping, eyes squinting to make sure his next step wouldn't be off the side of the mountaintop. As he struggles to walk, Kaim recalls a memory locked deep within his heart.

Strong winds have always blown across that vast grassy plain. Perhaps the area's topography has something to do with it, but the direction of the wind remains constant, irrespective of the time or season. From east to west, from the horizon where the sun rises to the horizon where the sun sets. Swept by the unceasing winds, the misshapen trunks and branches of shrubs all bend to the west. Tall grasses do not grow here, and the grasses that do grow all lie flat on the ground, bending westward.

Caravans and herding folk traverse the single road that crosses the plain. They do not "come and go," they only go, moving from east to west, using the wind at their backs to gain distance. Travelers heading west to east always use the circuitous route that snakes around the southern mountains. It is much farther that way, but much faster than crossing the plain head-on into the wind. The road across the plain is called the Wind Stream. Just as the flow of a great river never changes direction, the footsteps of those who use the road have not changed direction since the distant past, nor are they likely to change far into the future: from east to west.

They never pass oncoming travelers—with only the rarest exceptions. The first time she passed Kaim on the Wind Stream, the girl was just an infant.

The girl points down at the ground where she is standing.

"This is as far as I've come," she says with a proud, happy smile.

The religion of the girl and her family hold the belief that if they devote their lives to walking eastward, against the flow of the Wind Stream, they will arrive at the source of the winds itself. People call believers in that religion "The Upstreamers."

The Upstreamers are devoid of worldly desires. They live their lives for no greater purpose than traveling eastward on foot. They are free of doubt. They give birth to children on the road, and they continue their journey while raising their children. When they age and their strength gives out, their journey ends. But their family's journey continues.

From child to grandchild to great-grandchild, their belief is carried on. The journey of this girl's family was begun by her late grandmother, who began walking from the Wind Stream's western edge with her son, who was then the age the girl is now.

The Upstreamers do not walk for the entire year, of course. During the season when the winds are especially strong—from the late autumn to early spring—they take up residence in various post towns scattered along the road and earn day wages by performing tasks that the townsfolk themselves refuse to do. Some Upstreamers choose to stay in the towns, while others, conversely, take townspeople with them when they return to the road in the spring.

These are people who have fallen in love during the long winter, or boys who dream of travel, or peasants who have tired of town life. Such are the reasons the townsfolk look upon the Upstreamers with complicated gazes. The little girl's mother was one of those who joined the journey mid-way, and the girl herself, some years from now, might fall in love with someone in a post town somewhere. She might choose to live in the town, or she could just as well invite her lover to join her on the road.

She has no idea at this point what lies in store for her. The girl's father calls out to her: "Time to go!"

Their brief rest is over.

She seems sorry to leave and stands up reluctantly. "Too bad," she says. "I wish I could have talked to you more. But we have to get to the next town by the time the snows start." Constantly exposed to upwinds, her cheeks are red and cracked, her lips chapped, but her smile is wonderful a she wishes Kaim a safe journey.

It is the serene smile of one who believes completely in the purpose of her life, without the slightest doubt. "Will I see you again somewhere?" she asks.

"Probably."

Kaim answers after a while, smiling back at her, but he can never match that smile of hers. He is now in the midst of a journey that will take him beyond the western end of the Wind Stream. He heads to the battlefield as a mercenary, and by the time the western battle is over, a new battle will have begun in the east.

It will be a long, cruel journey, with nothing to believe in. When he meets the girl again along the way, Kaim's smile will have taken on even more shadows than it has now. As a parting gift for him, the girl sings a few short lines for him:

_This wind, where does it blow from? _

_Where does it start its journey here? _

_Does it come from where life begins? _

_Or does it begin where life ends? _

"Goodbye, then," the girl says, trudging on, one labored step at a time, hair streaming in the headwind.

Ten long years flow by when Kaim next meets the girl.

It is spring, when the grassland is dotted with lovely white flowers. She has become the wife of a young man who does tailoring and shoe repair in one of the post towns. "This is my third spring here," she says, patting her swollen belly fondly.

In a few days, she will give birth to a child; she'll become a mother. "And your parents...?" Kaim asks. She shrugs and glances eastward.

"They are continuing their journey. I'm the only one who stayed on here." Kaim doesn't ask why she has done this. He knows that continuing the journey is one way to live, and staying in a town is another. Neither can be judged to be more correct than the other. The only answer for the girl can be seen in her smiling face. "But never mind about me," she says looking at him suspiciously.

"You haven't changed one little bit from the time we met so long ago."

For the thousand-year-old Kaim, ten years is nothing but a change in season."Some lives are like that," he says, straining to smile.

"Some people in this world can never grow old, no matter how long they live."

He looks at the girl, now grown into a woman, and wonders again, Living through endless ages of time: is it a blessing, or a curse?

"If that's the case," she says, "You should be the one who goes to the place where the wind begins. You'd be the perfect Upstreamer."

She could be right: after all, the lifespan given to humans is far too short for anyone to travel against the Wind Stream as far as the starting point of the wind. Still, Kaim responds with a few slow shakes of his head.

"I'm not qualified to make the journey."

"No? Anybody can be an Upstreamer. Anybody, that is, who wants to see where the wind starts with his or her own two eyes."

Having said this, however, the girl adds with a touch of sadness, "No one has actually seen it, though, I guess." The place where the wind begins: Kaim knows that place is nowhere at all. Even if, after a long journey, one were to arrive at the eastern end of the Wind Stream like he did, the wind would be blowing there, too. And not just an east wind. West wind, north wind, south wind: winds without limit, without end.

Human beings, who cannot live forever, daring to take a journey without end. This might be the ultimate tragedy. "How about you?" he asks the girl. "Aren't you going to continue your journey soon?"

She thinks about this for the space of a breath, and caressing her swollen belly, she tilts her head and says, "I wonder... I might want to go on living the way I am now forever. Or then again, I might feel that desire to reach the starting point of the wind." All the Upstreamers without exception say that you can never know what might trigger a return to the journey. One day, without warning, you walk off the entire town life and start walking.

It is not always a matter of running into an Upstreamer and being lured back to the road: plenty of people set out on their own all of a sudden. The teachings of the Upstreamers say that all human beings harbor a desire for endless travel. They probably are not aware of the desire because it is stashed away so far down in the breast that it is deeper than Kaim's memories.

The instant something brings it to the surface, a person becomes and Upstreamer. "Even if you have the desire," the girl says to Kaim.

"I wonder..."

"It's true," she says. "No question."

The look in her eyes is as straight-on and free of doubt as it was the last time he met her.

Fixing him with that look, she points to her own chest.

"I haven't completely lost it myself."

"But I'm sure you're happy with your present life?"

"Of course I am." She replies.

"Do you really think the day will come when you will want to set out on the journey even if it means giving up that happiness?"

Instead of answering, she gives him a gentle smile. Many years flow by, but every now and then, something reminds Kaim of the girl's words—that everyone harbors a desire for endless travel.

For Kaim, living itself is a journey without end.

In the course of his journey, he has witnessed countless deaths, and he has also witnessed countless births. Human life is all too short, too weak, and fleeting. Yet, the more he dwells upon its mystery, the more he feels that words such as "eternal," apply more properly to life, short as it is, than to anything else. Traveling down the Wind Stream for the first time in many years, Kaim spies the funeral of an Upstreamer.

A boy in a mourning dress stands by the road holding out wildflowers to passing travelers, and urging them to "offer up a flower to a noble soul who has made the long journey this far."

Kaim takes a flower and asks the boy, "Is it a member of your family?"

"Uh-huh. My grandma."

The boy nods, his face the image of one Kaim knew so long ago.

The old woman lying in the coffin must be the girl. Kaim is sure of it.

"Grandma traveled a long, long time. She brought my daddy with her when he was just a little boy. See that hill over there? She started walking from way, way beyond it, and she got all the way here."

So, the girl must've set out on her journey after all. Turning her back on the town life, leading her child by the hand, she trod her way along the endless journey. Her wish to aim for the place where the wind begins would be passed on to her child, her grandchild, and on through the succeeding generations.

To head for a land one could never hope to reach, and to do so generation after generation: this is another endless journey. Is it a tragedy?

Perhaps the serene smile on the face of the old woman in the coffin is the answer. Kaim lays the flower at her feet as an offering. The family members who have traveled with her join together in a song for the departed:

_This wind, where does it blow from? _

_Where does it start its journey here? _

_Does it come from where life begins? _

_Or does it begin where life ends? _

The wind blows and sweeps the vast grassland as Kaim takes one long, slow step toward his destination.

"Have a good trip!" calls the boy.

Red and cracked as the girl's were so long ago, his cheeks soften in a smile as he waves to the departing Kaim.

The memory of The Upstreamer pulls at his heart even now as he crosses the mountaintops of Rhun. A single tear is drawn from Kaim's face as he trods against the headwind, but he also smiles in fond memory.


End file.
